Did I Actually Invent the Beard?

Back in the day, there was no such thing as No-Shave-November. There wasn't really a socially acceptable form of facial hair, with the possible exception of a well trimmed mustache. Most polite folks considered a beard to be a sign of rebellion, anarchy, or any other anti-social heebeegeebees that one might imagine.

Naturally, I had a beard. When I say naturally, it wasn't because I fit into any of those above mentioned categories. I say naturally, because that was what grew on my face.

Just as naturally, the “little old ladies” at church were alarmed by my choice of face. I never felt like the victim of profiling, but then I may have just been glibly ignorant. More than once I was offered financial help to purchase a razor. I was also offered free aftershave. And I was frequently quizzed about my motivation to wear a beard. Even my own grandmother joined in the crusade to get me to shave.

Perhaps everyone thought I was turning to the “dark side.” Interestingly, no one ever asked if I was trying to emulate Jesus.

The truth was, I broke out with acne when I shaved. After dealing with that bane during my teen years, I found the cure. It was simple, 100% natural, and completely harmless. End of conversation. Only, as I have related, it was not the end of the conversation. At that age I was not comfortable discussing it, so I patiently endured their prying and never revealed my reason.

Now that I am old and no longer care what people think of me, I find the whole scenario amusing.

But it does bring up a few really important questions. Did having a beard way before it was cool make me a Hipster? Or worse, was I serendipitously a fashion trendsetter? And even worse yet, am I still that precursor?

Let's hope not. Otherwise the next big thing in men's grooming fashion could be out-of-control eyebrows! Yikes! We may all look like Gandalf in the near future!

Who Doesn't Love a Good Spelling Bee?

Me!

I never even knew such a thing existed. Oh, I knew all about spelling bees. There just are no good ones.

In my early years the scenario would inevitably play out like this: A normally kind-hearted, sincere, respectable teacher would inexplicably decide to torture us children. She would select the two smart girls in the class as team leaders, and they would in turn each select a team. I was always the second to last picked.

The spell down would ensue as follows:

Teacher: Spell “ape”

Smart Girl: a-p-e

Teacher: Spell “bat”

Other Smart Girl: b-a-t

Teacher: Spell “cat”

Next smart kid: c-a-t

Teacher: Spell “dog”

Next kid: d-o-g

And it would go like that until the kid before me. Then she would turn the page and, as it fell with an ominous thud against the prior page, the teacher would casually comment, “Well, it looks like we're out of three-letter words.”
Inside she was transforming into Darth Vader. I am certain I heard the epic theme music. The air in the room would choke off and the lights would begin to pulsate with the rhythm of my heart. Darth Vader was still ten years in the future, but I knew it would be bad. Between the labored breathing, her voice became deep and she would say,

“Mr. Hodge, spell 'obsequious'.”

My throat would go dry and my tongue would become leaden. “Could you use the word in a sentence please?” I would croak out.

The smart kids in the class would begin to snicker and the teacher would reply, “Your lack of attentiveness is disturbing. 'If you were more obsequious, you would get better grades.'”

And the moment of truth would crush down on me. I would reason that it must be a four-letter word and, in desperation, I would try, “Ob-see-kwee-us.”
The room would erupt into chaotic laughter and the teacher would rage, “None of those are letters! If you never learn to spell, how will you ever survive in life? Are you to become a hermit and live in a cave?” Or something that sounded similar to my stinging ears. I would take my seat along with the derision of my classmates.

Then the teacher would instantly transform back to her sweet self and call on the next kid, “Spell park.”

I'm not sure who invented the spell checker, but that person is one of my all-time favorite heroes! The spell checker ranks right up there with peanut butter in my mind. If you should ever get a hand written letter from me and it is neatly done with all the words spelled properly, it's a fake.

There are several ways to determine an original RV hand written letter. First, the writing is really bad. Second, there will be something misspelled. Third, there is likely to be a serial number. I think I'm on about twelve.

Concept to Creation: Boathouse Mouse Comes to Life!

Writing books and stories is fun. Fun to me anyway. In high school, when the teacher would hand out a blank paper and say to write something, I had a blast. I know plenty of people who think that kind of assignment is one step shy of being boiled in oil.

To be fair, there are certain parts of the process that are … less fun. Less, as in, sometimes I pull my hair out trying to remember that perfect rewrite of an unsatisfactory passage that came to me in the shower. But in all, it is a wonderful process.

Writing a children's book has been doubly fun. Because now I have the second pleasure of watching as the artist breathes visual life into my characters. For The Adventures of Boathouse Mouse, I had a vision in my head which I could barely sketch. And Shawna, the artist, has taken my pathetic attempt at illustration and created something amazing.

Lest you think I am being self deprecating, or exercising false modesty, I have included my concept drawing for the cover and overlaid a sample of Shawna's final drawing which is currently in process. The cover concept has morphed a bit, but her picture has taken on a life of its own.

I love it! I love all of the illustrations so far! I don't often feel like a kid, but this has taken me there. Stay tuned for more on the subject, and be sure to stop by Shawna's website to see all of her cool stuff.

Back to the Drawing Board

I Was There When the World Came to an End!

Why do you have a mayonnaise jar full of ashes? Oddly enough, quite a few people ask me that question. It is really a jar full of memories. No, this is not the remains of a deceased pet or loved one. That would be really weird in a mayo jar.

This ash is from Mount Redoubt volcano. It was across Cook Inlet, about 50 miles from our little corner of Alaska. The year was 1989 and the mountain had been having contractions for some time. The day it gave birth … the ground shook and the sky went black!

I was on my way out of Ellington's Hardware in Soldotna when I saw the ominous cloud. I stood on the porch of the hardware store with several others, just watching in awe as the cloud grew. It was enormous, like 45,000 feet high enormous. As if on cue, everyone realized that ash cloud was coming our way.

I jumped into my car and headed home. If the world was going to end, I wanted to be with my wife and kids!

I hastily filled all our water buckets at the neighbor's well and loaded in firewood as the sky was dimming. In moments, the world went dark and ash began to fall like snow. The air was thick and suffocating. We stuffed towels under the doors to seal off the choking smell of sulfur. It was an ominous experience, to say the least.

The hardest part of the ordeal was to hold my family like the world was ending, yet without causing alarm. I did not actually know if we would survive. I did not know if we would get a dusting of ash, or ten crushing feet.

It seemed like it took a long time for the ash storm to pass. I suppose it was an hour or so. The smell was oppressive, but when it ended, the sun came out. That was when it got really weird.

I walked out into a moonscape. Everything was a dull blue-gray, and there was no sound. Walking in the volcanic fallout was so silent my ears hurt. I spoke to hear something. “Is there anyone else alive here?” My voice was muffled an inch from my lips.

It was a long time before there was another sign of life.

As I carefully measured the ash on several surfaces, I decided to save a jarful for memory. It was carefully scraped from a one square foot portion of my car's hood.

That ash is more than the sum of its parts. It reminds me of the numerous times we saw that volcano erupt. It reminds me of the indescribably awesome upward lightning coming from inside the volcano during a night eruption. That one was viewed from a friend's roof. We weren't just hanging out on the roof, we had to shovel the snow off.

There is more, much more, in that jar than ash. And if you ask me why I have a jar of ashes, I will correct you and say that it is not ashes, but ash!

Writing Between the Lines: The Making of "Blood Trail of the Falcon"

I always enjoy learning how things are made. In fact, it makes me crazy when I can't figure out how something is made and I have to Google it just so I can sleep. I am, by nature I suppose, a chronic thing maker. So it is only natural for me to be curious (my wife says psychotic) about how things are made.

So, I am sharing how a book is written. I have no earthly idea how normal people do it. I have very little experience with normal anything. What I am sharing is how I did it. It was actually really fun. So fun that I have repeated the process.

All you need is ambition … and a lot of spiral notebooks, and a lot of pens, and a lot of coffee, and a lot of determination. Other than that it just takes time. Oh, and some research.

I suppose an out of control imagination is a handy thing for the process as well.

Truly the hardest part is writing the first page. At least it was for me. Maybe that's because I rewrote it about fifty times. Maybe normal people start with their first page, but I might as well skip it and come back later. The truth is, this whole series started with a scenario that has yet to be written.

Yep, I'm that kind of special. The aforementioned scenario will show up in Book 4 in the Falcon series. Yes, that one will be released a year from now. Please stay tuned by the way.

My, but I have digressed. I write the first draft longhand because I write much faster than I type. With the book Blood Trail of the Falcon, I wrote the second draft longhand as well. There were probably some really good reasons in my mind, but I was mostly afraid to let my wife see it in the raw form. I was uncertain if it was readable as a story, and I didn't want to get my feelings torpedoed.

When I let my dear wife read it, she laughed and cried at all the right places. That appeased my insecurities a bit. It also won her the privilege of deciphering my glyphs and typing the whole mess into the computer. It was much easier to edit on the computer.

Once it was in digital form, the serious editing began. It started with rewriting the whole thing all the way through a couple of times. Then there was the copy editor's highlights and notes that pointed out all the ways I was illiterate. Then I tackled all the spots I was not satisfied with. After that there was more editing. And that cycle could have gone on indefinitely. It was kind of a long process, but very satisfying in the end.

I have included a photo of those spiral notebooks. The pile of pens was a shameless theatrical cheap trick. In truth I probably used up over a dozen Pilot pens.

As for the coffee … I would have had the same amount if I was fishing or doing anything else.